


Confident in Victory

by weathervaanes



Series: The Spoils of War [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Soldier Derek, injured derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ first thought is that Scott was right.  Derek is a complete hottie and there’s no way Stiles isn’t going to be making a big deal out it.  But then, he looks down a couple inches, just trying to get the full picture of the smoking hot guy in the army uniform striding towards them through the airport, and he figures out that he’s not really striding so much as wobbling.</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Derek Hale comes back from war.  Stiles falls.  Hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confident in Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Sterek companion piece of The Spoils of War. Although it's not necessary to read the other fic to understand what's going on here, it's recommended. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles’ first thought is that Scott was right.  Derek is a complete hottie and there’s no way Stiles isn’t going to be making a big deal out it.  But then, he looks down a couple inches, just trying to get the full picture of the smoking hot guy in the army uniform striding towards them through the airport, and he figures out that he’s not really striding so much as wobbling.  On a crutch, that he has tucked under his left underarm and is grasping tightly with one hand.  Lower, around the area where he’s supposed to have a lower leg, there’s nothing but air, and Stiles doesn’t stare.  He remembers Scott--about to get home from eight months away in South America--telling him and his mother that he had a friend coming home with him, a Major Derek Hale, who was grievously injured and subsequently honorably discharged from the army.  It’s just, well.  Stiles hadn’t really thought about what grievously really meant.

His dad isn't far behind but the guy is holding his own bag in one of his hands even though Stiles knows for certain that his dad offered. From what Scott told him of this man it's exactly the type of thing to be expected of him. But then Scott is right there introducing him and Hale gives Melissa the most winning smile Stiles has ever seen. Just in case he had any doubts up until now, he's fucked.

 

* * *

 

At first, it’s just--them hanging out.  Scott is around a lot, always, and they spend a lot of time together.  Stiles isn’t immediately gone for Derek, doesn’t really know anything about him, but he likes to do nice things for the guy, thinks he deserves it.  So he makes off-handed comments to his dad and brings Derek drinks, chips, burgers--it doesn’t matter.  Stiles likes to be a giver, and Derek is just always around, always looking like he needs to be given something.

Stiles likes that he’s around.  He likes that Scott and Melissa come over to his dad’s house.  Stiles is around there more often nowadays, now that Scott is home, now that they have time to hang out.

He asks Scott, only once, one night when Derek has gone into his bedroom at the McCall’s house, tucked away while they’re up, sitting on the couch.  He asks Scott what happened.

Scott is already tense, talking about everything they did, everything they saw.  It’s made especially worse because Stiles has a feeling, a suspicion, that the reason Derek is injured is the same reason Allison is dead.

"Explosion," he says quickly.  "They weren’t expecting it, nobody was."

"It wasn’t supposed to happen," Stiles says.  "Yeah, you said."

Scott nods.  "Yeah.  It wasn’t supposed to happen."

"And he's got no one?"

Scott turns to him, serious as a heart attack. "He's got me."

As far as Stiles can gather, the Hale family died in a fire when Derek was 15. When he turned 18, he enlisted, went to college on the military’s dime, and went into training.

Stiles can't imagine a life more devoid of family and affection. He doesn't know Derek that well but he knows him enough to wish he'd gotten something better.

There’s a full week of them in Melissa’s home where they just don’t do anything.  They cook a lot of food and they watch a lot of television, read a lot of books, play a lot of games, but they don’t really go anywhere or do anything.  Neither Scott nor Derek seem to mind that much.  Stiles has a feeling Derek is comfortable being a homebody.  He also thinks fewer expectations for travel make it easier on his leg, but he doesn’t ask.

But anyway, Stiles doesn’t think he has a single fucking chance of getting Derek to even consider Stiles as a viable option for makeouts until one afternoon, when they’re sitting in Melissa’s dining room, playing Battleship.

It’s dumb, Stiles knows, but it’s his favorite game from when he was a kid, and he found Scott’s old set up in the attic about an hour ago, and Derek agreed to play with him, so.  So.  There’s flirting.  And Stiles isn’t blind.  He went to college.  He dated.  He had real relationships.  He knows what flirting is like, even when it’s coming from the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his life.

It’s quiet, the way it all develops.  Simple.  Unobtrusive.  Stiles loves it.

It’s like they both just know, without having to say so, that there’s a mutual interest and they’re going to have to talk about it eventually.  But right now, and over the next several days, Stiles just sticks around.  He gives and takes easy touches, doesn’t treat Derek any differently, just treats him well.  Just treats him the way he wants to, which is with care.

 

* * *

 

He’s lying flat on his back in Derek’s bed one afternoon, Derek at his side, and the fan is pulsing out a nice rhythm, a nice airstream that keeps Stiles cool.  His hands are folded on his stomach; he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.

Scott told him once that Derek goes into his head if he spends too much time around other people.  Sometimes he just likes to be alone, needs to be alone, thrives off of it.  And Stiles totally gets that.  So after Stiles made them lunch that afternoon and Derek announced he wanted to go lie down in his room, Stiles understood.  He didn’t quite understand why Derek asked him to come with.

"If this is awkward for you," Derek starts.

"No," Stiles says.  "No, this is fine."

"I just--sometimes I like to be alone.  But then sometimes I like to be alone...with people.  Does that--make any sense?"

Stiles turns his face so he can look at him even though Derek isn't looking back. "Yeah, of course, I get that."

They stay there, silent and in each other's company. Every so often Derek will say something and Stiles will respond, nothing important, just little nothings. Eventually Stiles drifts off to sleep laying on his stomach, his side pressed up to Derek in an easy comfort.

Usually, when he naps, he gets disgustingly sweaty and wakes up with a need to jump into the shower.  He likes the way blankets feel on him, even though the warmth they provide is mostly unnecessary for mid-day slumber.  But this time, when he wakes up, he just feels--comfortable.  He can feel the heat of Derek to his right, pressed up against his side.  He can feel the fan, shoving air against his back.  He can feel his toes pressed up against Derek’s comforter at the end of the bed.  And he keeps his eyes closed for a second longer, just breathing.

When he rolls over again and checks his watch, he’s probably only been asleep for about forty minutes, maybe a little more.  Derek, beside him, is rousing too, and Stiles takes a moment to watch the way he squirms against the mattress, entirely indulgent and unapologetic.

When Derek catches his eyes he reaches out, almost without hesitation, and runs his fingers through Stiles' hair. He pulls his hand away and looks at his watch. Stiles can see the deep red marks where it was pressed between his wrist and the mattress.

"I think you have to go to work soon," he mumbles.

Stiles sighs and rolls on his side. "Guess so."

"It’s a Friday.  Afternoon and night classes on Fridays."

"You memorized my schedule."

Derek doesn’t look embarrassed about it.  He just shrugs, reaches out for Stiles again, rubbing his hand down his arm.

"You could come with me," Stiles says.  "If you wanted to get out of the house.  No pressure."

"I think Scott would worry."

"Fair enough."  Stiles sits up, rolls off the side of the bed to stand properly on his own two feet.  But even as he contemplates leaving, it’s hard to look at Derek on that bed, propped up on his elbows, staring right back at Stiles--it’s hard to look at him and want to leave him behind.

Stiles licks his lips, gestures towards the hall.  "I’ll come back.  Tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

They're sitting on the couch flipping channels like a couple of bums when Derek mentions it.

"I had to send the letter to Allison's father," he says.

"Yeah, but he knows Scott," Stiles sighs.  "He knows he's probably the only person in the world that feels even a fraction of what he's feeling."

"We all loved her," he says quietly, "even though she talked back more than anyone I've ever met and only sometimes followed orders. She slapped me once, for daring to imply she should stay behind. I only thought it'd be easier for the women and children to trust her to get them somewhere safe, but she wasn't having it."

"Assaulting a superior officer," Stiles says softly.

"Allison was my friend first, before ranks came into play."

"Yeah.  I know."

Scott finally made the call.  He finally decided to go down to the elementary school where Chris Argent works and see him.  Stiles knows--he knows that nothing in the world has hurt Scott quite as much as losing Allison.  Probably nothing else will hurt him that badly for a long, long time, and Stiles has to wonder what goes on in that head of his.

"He feels guilty," Derek says.  "He’s an Army Medic, first on the scene, meant to try to heal everyone."

"He can’t save everyone."

"Yeah."  Derek nods.  "Yeah, I know."

Derek scoots down slightly, repositioning his shoulders against a couch.  Stiles doesn’t think much of it, just halts on an old episode of some show he watched as a kid, lets it play through.  Eventually, Derek tips his head over until it’s resting on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles, for a second, doesn’t breathe.  But it’s not like it’s a big deal.  It’s not like it’s anything that Stiles hasn’t been expecting.  And so it doesn’t matter, and he lets the fingers of his right hand reach over and thread with the fingers of Derek’s left, because that feels right too.

He doesn’t really think much of it.  He just--does what he wants and takes what Derek gives him and is careful to look for signs that Derek is uncomfortable or wants more space.  But he thinks, probably, Derek would tell him.  He always keeps his crutch close by, always within reach, and he’s a capable guy.  He knows his own strengths, trusts himself a lot, and Stiles is confident that he’s not doing anything Derek doesn’t want.  Because Derek would tell him.

That night, when Scott and Derek come over to the Sheriff’s house for dinner, Stiles goes with them.  He tosses a salad with chicken for his dad--well, for everyone, but mostly for his dad--and then secretly grills up a few cheeseburgers too, just in case.  When he sees Derek picking at the leafy greens, frowning into the bowl, he quickly changes the dish out without a second thought, and Derek looks at him with happy, warm eyes and Stiles feels like he’s the damsel in distress swooning.

"I'm gonna go take Mom some dinner after this," Scott says, taking a sip from his water glass.

Derek glances up from his food and Stiles can practically see the expectation he’s weighed upon his own shoulders, his hand already twitching towards his crutch. "Should I come with you?"

Stiles wants to say no, looks back and forth between Scott and Derek slowly, but Scott only shrugs, never looking up from his food.  "Don't think Stiles will mind if you stay."

"We still need to catch this man up on Marvel," Stiles says through a bite of his food.  He doesn’t say everything else he’s thinking, that he doesn’t want Derek to go yet, that he hasn’t had his daily fill of his smile.  That all sounds--too much.

Scott laughs. "Looks like you're staying."

So Derek does.

Stiles can hear it, later, when Scott comes back, but he's too busy explaining every theory that pops into his head about what he and Derek are watching while trying not to spoil any of the other movies for him. He's figured out, in the past few days, that Derek doesn't get nearly as exhausted around people if said people are directly addressing him. Derek can't deal with the buzz of other people's conversation sometimes, and Stiles gets that. He also gets that Derek is allowing him into every inch of personal space until Stiles is all but speaking into his ear. The smell of him, like fresh sheets and soap and something else, is distracting.

Derek is quiet, but that’s not unusual.  He has a small smile permanently etched on his face while Stiles talks, tells him everything about the relation to the comic books, the way the director used CGI to create the coolest details on the villains.  He’s so thrilled by all of this, and Derek just glances between the screen and Stiles, back and forth, taking in as much as he can.

He knows Scott is back, that he’s sitting at the table near the kitchen with Stiles’ dad.  He’ll have the chance to talk to him later, about what he’s going to say when he goes into the elementary school and talks to the kids, about how he’s going to eventually have to talk to Argent about Allison, because it’s going to crush them both if they don’t.  But for now, he’s happy like this.

It’s late when Scott announces that he’s going home.  Stiles tells Derek he can drive him home later, if he wants to stay, and there’s something in Derek’s eyes that says that would be a wonderful idea.  But maybe it’s the way Stiles’ dad clears his throat, or maybe Stiles is just trying too hard to look nonchalant about it, but either way, Derek goes.

 

* * *

 

Derek gets the door the next day when Stiles pops over. The only reason he knocked is because the window curtains are open which usually means someone is home, but all the cars are gone.

"Hey," he says as he waves.  "Home alone?"

Derek nods. "Scott's gotta run some errands for Melissa. I didn't want to slow him down."

Stiles frowns. "Come on, you could never do that; have you seen Scott? He's a slowpoke."

Derek shrugs.

"Well, can I come in?"

Derek moves over a bit so that Stiles can come in before he shuts the door. Stiles goes straight for the fridge like he's in his own home and pours himself some water.

"So what's up?"  He can see Derek's knuckles white around the handle of his crutches, but he won't mention it. He'll keep it casual.

"I don't think we should do this."

Stiles blinks. "And what would this be?"

Derek leans on the kitchen table and motions vaguely with his hand. "This.  Whatever's going on here. It needs to stop."

Stiles sets down the glass of water, tucks his hands in his pockets.  He feels, immediately, like he’s done something wrong, but there’s something in the way Derek avoids his eyes that makes him think twice.  "I’m sorry you feel that way," Stiles says slowly.  "Can we talk about it?"

"There’s nothing to talk about," Derek says.  "We can’t--you’re not just some--we can’t."

"I think I have the right to know why."

Derek’s jaw clenches, eyes looking down to the floor.  "It might be different," he says slowly, "if you were just, someone else.  Not Scott’s brother."

"Did he say something to you?" Stiles demands.

"He didn’t have to," Derek says, and Stiles knows that’s a yes.

"Scott doesn’t get to make decisions about things that don’t involve him."

"You’re his best friend," Derek tells him tightly, "and I’m not good enough for you.  And we shouldn’t do this.  We can’t do this."

"He said that," he says slowly.  "He said you're not good enough for me?"

"No," Derek says quickly, "but it's my responsibility not to put weights on you that you didn't go around asking for. Scott, when he puts himself back together, he'll be whole again. It won't even take long, just someone to tell him that he can. Someone he'll believe. But me? It doesn't matter what anyone says or does for me, I'll still wake up and see how broken I am. There's no getting better."

Stiles is fucking furious, just listening to him say that.  He doesn’t want to get angry, he doesn’t want to lash out, but he feels so incredibly frustrated and it’s killing him.  "It doesn’t matter that you’re broken," Stiles says fiercely.  "You think someone in your position wouldn’t be?  You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for?"

"You’re not signing up for anything because this can’t happen."

"You like me," Stiles protests.  "I know you do.  And, goddammit, Derek, I like you a lot, and I think you deserve something nice in your life.  I think you need to let someone just--just let someone care about you."

"I don’t need to be taken care of."

"No," Stiles agrees, "you don’t.  But everybody needs help sometimes.  And everybody needs someone around them who loves them.  And I--I really fucking care about you, dude, so just--just get over yourself because you don’t get to decide what’s good for me."

He can see Derek's conviction is shaken so he takes the opportunity to move closer. He moves right in front of Derek where he's leaning back on the kitchen counter and he stays there, his mouth hovering just over Derek's lips.

"This isn't about what we should or shouldn't do. Tell me you don't want me and I'll leave."

Derek’s eyes blink slowly.  "Of course I want you," he says softly, and that’s all Stiles needed to hear.

When he presses his mouth against Derek’s, Derek is shuddering, breathing heavily, kissing him back like he’s desperate, like he needs Stiles for oxygen.  It’s not slow or sweet or even remotely PG, and Stiles doesn’t care.  It’s perfect for them, and it’s everything he needs to communicate to Derek.  That he wants Derek, that he cares for Derek, and that nothing else fucking matters.

Derek breaks the kiss too quickly, turning his face away so he can breathe, and Stiles takes that opportunity to kiss down his neck.  

"I have to--do you mind if we sit down?"

Stiles shakes his head and lets Derek head to the couch, doesn't offer help that Derek doesn't need. But when Derek is seated and settled he doesn't hesitate in crawling in beside him and diving in for another kiss. Derek is kissing him back and it's hot and desperate and right until their bodies are pressed together and Stiles can feel him tense. Derek pulls away from the kiss, his eyes shut as he faces to the left. "Stiles."

"Do you want me to stop?"

He can see that Derek is struggling but he doesn't know, has no idea what he did or what he has to do.

"Damn it, Stiles, I'm a fucking snapped toy."

Stiles swears he sees red and then he's straddling him, holding his face between his hands, "You're not a damn thing, Derek. You're a man. Brave and selfless and protective and real, and you get hurt the way men do--you don't snap like a plaything, and it doesn't make you less and it doesn't make you unattractive."  He strokes his thumb over Derek’s jaw.  "I don’t care. I don’t give a shit what you look like or what limits your impose on yourself.  I don’t care at all.  The only thing that should matter is how you feel about me, and how I feel about you."  Stiles rests his hands on Derek’s chest, over his thumping heart.  "Do you want me or not, Derek?  Because we’re not gonna keep going in circles about this."

Derek exhales, shaky hands lifting to grab onto Stiles’ hips.  "I want you," he says.  "I want you.  I’m just--scared.  That I’m going to push you away."

"I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, buddy, but I’m pretty fucking stubborn.  I once chased after the same girl for ten full years."

"Okay," Derek says, and it feels too easy just like that, that simple word that Derek uses to hand over everything, but Stiles doesn’t care.  After everything, they could use something that’s easy.

Stiles smiles.  "Okay."

 

* * *

 

It's not like they tell anyone, make any announcements. Everyone just accepts that Stiles will usually end up wherever Derek is. It's Thursday when Stiles more or less kidnaps Derek. Scott is away on his lunch date with the pretty teacher he met at Argent’s school and his dad's car is there and he's not going to think about that right now.

"Hey," he says as he lets himself in and finds Derek on the couch. Derek leans his head back on the couch and he kisses him upside down Spiderman style. "I was thinking maybe you could come over to my place tonight."

He speaks in hushed tones, trying not to think about his dad upstairs.

Derek licks his lips and nods.  "When?" he asks.

"After dinner.  We’re all eating here in a couple of hours and, after.  We could go over to mine."

"Yeah," Derek says.  "Sure."

Dinner is fine.  Slow.  Slower than Stiles would like.  But Scott talks a lot about the pretty teacher named Kira and how he asked her out for dinner the following Friday, even though his full intention upon seeing her again was to tell her he wasn’t ready to date.

Stiles doesn’t make fun of him for it.  He figures if Scott abandoned his previous plans for her, there must be a reason.

After dinner, Stiles hurries to his feet, grabs his own jacket and Derek’s, says, "Derek’s gonna come over to mine.  Lots of pop culture stuff to catch him up on."

His father doesn’t look particularly amused, but Stiles doesn’t care.  Even when Derek blushes and swats at Stiles outside the house, telling him he was too obvious.

"It doesn’t matter," Stiles says, opening up the passenger’s side door for him.  "He likes you."

Derek's never been to his place before and he wonders if he should have cleaned more, if there whole "we're going to have sex now" vibe is too heavy and too much pressure. But Derek is right behind him, his mouth on the side of his neck, and it's easy to let go of those nerves.

"Want a drink?" he offers.

Derek hums.  "If you do."

"I have some, uh, beer.  Tequila.  Margarita mix.  And flavored vodka."

Derek pushes his forehead against Stiles’ neck.  "I kind of just want to get in bed."

"Full steam ahead, huh?"

Derek's left one of his crutches by the table and Stiles takes a minute to be amazed at how Derek can hold himself up and pull Stiles against him without faltering.

"You going to show me your bed or what?"

Stiles shivers at the sensation, the way Derek's breath tickles at his neck before he's nodding--too turned on and stupid already.

In the bedroom, Stiles is all too aware of Derek’s body, the way he moves, the way he clings to Stiles just a little tighter.  Stiles is there, to help him, and they ease down onto the bed, Derek’s only crutch tipping towards the floor.

"Sorry," Stiles says.  "I’ll, uh, get that.  Later."

Derek grabs his neck, kisses him.  "Don’t worry about it."

Stiles worries, in between kissing him and running his hands over him. He worries about where he should be, how to be right for him.

"Stiles," Derek mutters against his lips, "you need to relax."

"I don't."  He pauses and leans up on his hands.  "You gotta tell me if I'm being awkward, okay?  It's like--you're the hottest person who has ever wanted to see me naked and I don't know what I'm doing."

Derek smiles patiently.  "Take off your shirt," he mutters, kissing along Stiles’ jaw. "And then I’ll take off mine."

"Easy enough," Stiles says, and he does as he’s told.  Derek’s hands are solid and warm on his chest, his stomach, his arms.  He’s good like this, obviously knows what he’s doing, what he wants, and Stiles leans into him, kisses him.

Derek, unsurprisingly, is ripped to the fucking nines.  Stiles knew that already, extrapolating from his arms, but it’s an entirely different story to drag his hands across his chest, his abdomen.  He has--scars, puckered and white, and Stiles ducks his head to kiss each and every one of them.  There’s a rather large one, slashed across the lower part of his left ribs, that Stiles tongues along, earning a gasp for his troubles.

Derek is wearing shorts--prefers them to the hassle of pinning up pant legs--and Stiles noses along the waistband. Derek lets out a shaky breath and pulls him up.

"I want--let me, okay?"

It takes a minute for him to get that Derek doesn't want Stiles to undress him and he nods, moving to give him room and nose at his neck.

"Don’t."  Derek breathes.  "I’d like it if you didn’t--look.  Or stare, I mean."

Stiles licks his collarbone.  "I’m not gonna make fun of you, dude."

"Don’t call me dude.  I--please."

"Sure.  Don’t worry about it."  Stiles kisses him again, and Derek eases them down so he can lie flat on his back, Stiles hovering slightly above him, knees to Derek’s left side.  "Want me to undress first so I can pay more attention to my dick?"

Derek nods quickly. "Yes."

Stiles tugs off his pants and then he really does get distracted by his dick and the way Derek pulls him onto his lap.

Somehow, Derek’s shorts and underwear disappear.  Stiles, as promised, isn’t really paying that much attention.  He’s happy straddling Derek, kissing him stupid, grinding his dick up against Derek’s washboard abs for some healthy satisfaction.

Derek’s hands grab for his ass and Stiles moans, kisses him filthier, deeper.

"Yeah, I’ll ride you," Stiles decides, "but tomorrow you’re gonna let me blow you, right?"

"We’ll see," Derek says shortly, but his voice is wrecked, so Stiles takes that positively.

He reaches for the lube but Derek snatches it from his hands. Stiles can just cling to Derek's shoulders and hold himself up on his knees while Derek's fingers work him open. He moans much too wrecked and loud right in Derek's ear.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind that much.  He holds onto Stiles’ thigh, nuzzles at his shoulder, kisses him while he stretches him open.  Stiles hasn’t done this with another person in months, maybe a year, and it’s hard, being vulnerable like this when he’s out of practice.  But Derek is solid and comfortable.  He’s not nervous, not right now.

Stiles grabs for a condom, rolls it over Derek patiently, testing him out with a few strokes of his hand.  Derek’s fingers are still taking their time, so he figures he can take his too.

But Derek isn't happy with the direction of Stiles' gaze, even though it's obvious Stiles only wants to see Derek's cock in his hand.  He wraps up quickly, kisses Stiles hungrily, and pulls him forward, further up onto his knees, so he can sink down onto Derek.

Derek is shuddering through his breathing as Stiles does so, settling down with Derek deep inside of him, hot and heavy and thick.  It’s good like this, just waiting for a moment, until he gets control of himself, of his breathing.

When he does start to move he loves the drag of Derek inside him and the way he breathes heavy and whines like Stiles is killing him in the best way. He loves Derek's hands gripping strong and firm on his hips, guiding him, lifting him and pulling him back down.

It’s slow.  Because he wants to be close to Derek, because Derek grabs at him and seems to want the same thing.  So it’s slow and it’s tender, and Stiles spends a large portion of the time with his hands on Derek’s shoulders, their foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other’s spaces and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes like some rom com cut scene with sweet music playing in the background.

As it is, their only background noise is Stiles’ neighbor’s microwave beeping and somebody downstairs honking their car.  But neither of them are paying any attention at all to that.  Instead, they’re paying attention to their bodies, the way they move together.  Stiles is paying attention to Derek’s hands on his ass, his legs, his arms.  He’s paying attention to Derek’s breathy noises and soft grunts, the way he rolls his hips and thrusts deeper into Stiles, taking everything Stiles offers eagerly.  

It’s kind of pathetic, how stupidly gone Stiles is over him, but he doesn’t need this to last an hour.  He doesn’t need it to last long at all.  He just needs Derek, close and warm and perfect, and that’s what he has.

Stiles comes between them, all over Derek's chest and it seems to set Derek right off. His hips thrust upward and he clings to Stiles, nails digging into his hips.  It’s sharp, beautiful pain that makes Stiles laugh, drunk with pleasure and happiness, leaning heavily onto Derek’s torso, mouth searching for his ear, the notch of his jaw.  As soon as he sucks the skin there into his mouth, Derek is gone, coming into the condom, into Stiles, and Stiles works him through it, rolling his hips, humming to himself as he watches Derek’s beautiful face through his orgasm.

He brings a towel for them both to clean up. Derek is relaxed, open. It's the best feeling in the world to climb into bed with him and let Derek wrap his arms around him. Derek kisses the side of his neck and Stiles drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Stiles knows that Scott has nightmares.  Scott told him.  And he’d assumed, at that point, that that meant Derek probably had nightmares too.  But Stiles wasn’t thinking about that when he feel asleep.  He’s sure as hell thinking about it with Derek screaming both himself and Stiles awake.

Stiles crawls on top of him immediately, unsure what else he’s supposed to do, trying to get Derek to calm down, and Derek shoves him, hard.  He finds himself on the floor, on the far side of the room, elbow in pain and ass throbbing.  In the darkness, Derek is sitting up, breathing hard, looking around wildly.

"Derek," he says, quietly, getting to his feet.

"I’m sorry," Derek says, panting.  "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--"

"It’s okay.  It’s okay, it was just a dream.  It’s fine.  You didn’t hurt me."

There’s a hurried knock on the front door and Stiles yanks on a pair of sweatpants, goes to tell his neighbor everything’s fine, no need to call the cops.

When he gets back to Derek, he's got his boxers back on and is putting on his shorts with practiced ease.

"Derek, what--"

"I can get a cab," he says as he wrestles with his shoe.  "Go back to sleep, Stiles."

"No way in hell, dude."  He takes the shoe from Derek, tossing it somewhere.  "Shut up, c’mere."  He drags him back onto the bed, turning on the lamp light on the bedside table.  Derek looks incredibly uncomfortable, however, like he’s waiting to sprint out of there.  "It’s fine.  Stay here.  Or I’ll drive you back if you’re really uncomfortable."

Derek closes his eyes.  "I hurt you."

"You didn’t.  I’m fine."  He pets his fingers over Derek’s hair.  "Hey.  Scott gets nightmares.  He told me.  That’s fine."

"I shouldn’t have fallen asleep here.  I should’ve--I should’ve told you no--"

"Derek."  He holds Derek’s face in his hands, forcing him to make eye contact.  "Look at me.  It’s fine."

"I can't drag you into this," he whispers. "Stiles, it's so much more than asking you to put up with waking up in the middle of the night. Scott was right. And what I hurt you? Really hurt you. I'm not Scott. I've killed people, Stiles."

"It was your job," Stiles says softly, but his heart is pounding.  "Derek, we already had this conversation.  Seriously."

"No," Derek argues, "because I--I could’ve really hurt you."

"So I’ll learn," Stiles tells him, stroking his thumbs across Derek’s cheeks.  "I’ll learn what to do to protect myself when you have a nightmare.  And I’ll learn how to help you through it.  I’ll figure it out, Derek, honest."

"I can’t ask you to do that."

"You’re not asking.  I’m offering."

It takes another few minutes but he finally calms Derek enough to make him to lie down again, flat.  At first he curls up behind Derek, spooning him, but as soon as he starts stroking his hand down Derek’s sides, towards his hips, Derek scoots away.

"I don’t think you’re gross," Stiles says softly.  "Or that it’s gross.  I don’t--it doesn’t bother me."

"Maybe it should," Derek says.

"Well it doesn’t."  Stiles licks his lips, squeezes Derek’s arm.  "C’mon.  Do you wanna go back to sleep?"

Derek nods.  "Yeah.  I do."

"Okay then.  C’mon."  And they settle again, cuddling in with each other until the tension in Derek’s body melts away.

It doesn’t happen all at once.  Stiles spends nearly an hour just touching him, easy, casual touches, nosing his way along the back of Derek’s neck, his shoulder.  It’s fine, just like this, and Stiles can feel it when Derek’s breathing evens out, when his body fully relaxes into sleep.  Stiles stays there, with him, holding him even as he falls asleep too.

When Stiles drives Scott back to the McCall house late the next morning, Scott is sitting on the couch, eating cereal.  Derek didn’t get the opportunity to have a real shower at Stiles’ house because his shower wasn’t properly supportive, so he kisses Stiles briefly and heads over to the bathroom, leaving Stiles to sit down next to Scott.

"Hey," Scott says through a mouthful of Fruit Loops.  "You okay?"

"Derek slept over last night," he says.

Scott nods. "You all right?"

Stiles snorts. "Me? What about him?"

Scott pats him on the shoulder. "Derek's been dealing with that for years."

"He doesn’t think I’m willing to take care of him.  Or, I mean."  He huffs.  "Be there for him.  I think he thinks I’m gonna leave or he’s gonna hurt me or--"

"What happened?"

Stiles tells him.  Scott listens, even mutes the TV for him, and even though his facial expressions don’t really change, Stiles knows he’s absorbing everything.

"I’m gonna suggest something to him," Stiles finishes.

"What?"

"I just feel like it would be harder, waking up alone.  So, I mean, he can stay with me.  Or--something, I don’t know.  But I don’t want him to go to bed alone."

Scott nods.  "Okay."

He doesn’t actually so much as say that to Derek, not really.  He just kind of insinuates himself into Derek’s space right around bedtime, and Derek agrees to go home with him again the following night.  They trade handjobs and sloppy kisses and Stiles gives him a fairly thorough sponge bath, which may or may not include his tongue too.  

He also sleeps in Derek’s bed at Scott’s house, curled up at his side, strewn across half the bed, snoring into pillows.

It just--works for them, really.  And Derek has nightmares still and he wakes up with Stiles brushing his hair off his forehead and kissing him sweetly.  He wakes up being cared for and looked after and that, ultimately, is what makes them work.

 

* * *

 

When everything comes through for the prosthetic, Stiles is the first one to be excited for Derek.  It’s a big deal, what with the physical therapy and the money and having to adjust to using it as a new limb, but Stiles--Stiles just wants to be there.  It helps that Derek seems to want him there at least.

The thing Derek doesn’t want him there for is the actual therapy appointments.  He’s embarrassed, Stiles knows, and the doctor had told him it would be an uncomfortable process for Derek, so as not to aggravate him further, Stiles should stay home and see him--later.

Meaning three months.  Derek asks Stiles to stay away from him for three whole months.  He’s going to be going to therapy every day, working to be able to even walk, and this should’ve happened as soon as he got home, as soon as the surgery was conducted, but it wasn’t, so.  So Stiles teaches his classes, stays out of Derek’s way for a full two weeks before he breaks.

Scott answers the door.

“Stiles,” he says with a half smile.  “Derek is, uh, watching TV.”

When Stiles pushes in, Derek grabs a blanket, throws it over the lower half of his body.  “You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest.  “You think some piece of machinery is going to disgust me?  You think I’m going to dump you because you’re Iron Man?”

“Stiles--”

“I want to pick you up from your next appointment,” Stiles says.  “I tried, really hard, but this is ridiculous.  I can’t go three months without seeing you when you live like a mile away.  It’s just ridiculous.”

Derek swallows tightly.  “Fine.  Friday.”

“Friday,” Stiles agrees.  He darts in, kisses Derek filthily, as seductively as he knows how, and then leaves, slamming the front door closed behind himself.

 

* * *

 

It is absolutely worth the argument, the silent-treatment, the frustration, to see Derek smirking, rolling his eyes at Stiles' celebratory dance as he walks towards the car, leaving the hospital rehabilitation center behind him.

"You're a complete idiot," he mutters when he's close enough for Stiles to hear.

Stiles doesn't care, he dances a little more. "You're part cyborg."

"You're an asshole," he says as he crowds Stiles against the car. But he's smiling, looks pleased at how easy it is now.

"Yeah and you love me," Stiles says before he hears himself.

Everything is quiet and tense and Stiles wants to take it back but he can't. He can't and then Derek is kissing him, hand at the back of his head pushing into him and eliminating every inch of space between them.

"So you," Stiles pants out.  "You?"

"I do." He smiles, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Stiles licks his lips anxiously. "Derek," he starts, "I've got a very serious question.”

Derek blinks and the nods at him. " Okay, shoot."

"How opposed are you to being a pirate for Halloween? Because I think I'd make the sexiest pirate wench and now that I love you and you love me, we're contractually obligated to do couple's costumes and--"

This time when Derek kisses him his knees shake, but when he falters he knows he won't fall because Derek is there to hold him up.


End file.
